


with matchin' laces

by Rehearsal_Dweller



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26717443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehearsal_Dweller/pseuds/Rehearsal_Dweller
Summary: Race is still pretty much a wreck, just like the rest of them, but fortunately Race graduated with honors from the Jack Kelly school of shitty coping methods and is about three seconds away from turning this whole thing into a joke as soon as he can find the right punchline.Newsies, as told by Racetrack Higgins.
Relationships: Albert DaSilva/Crutchie, Crutchie & Racetrack Higgins, David Jacobs & Jack Kelly, Racetrack Higgins & Albert DaSilva, Racetrack Higgins & David Jacobs, Racetrack Higgins & Jack Kelly, Racetrack Higgins & Les Jacobs
Comments: 37
Kudos: 65





	with matchin' laces

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, my name is Finn and my favorite characters from Newsies are Race and Davey and it _shows._
> 
> This started because I was like, "hey wouldn't it be fun to write the King of New York scene from Race's POV?" and then I was like "it would also be pretty fun to write a Jack apologises to RACE post-rally scene" and then I wrote nine thousand words. For obvious reasons, some of this skims pretty close to canon dialogue, but some of it strays pretty far. I had a lot of fun writing it and I hope you guys like it!

“Hey, papes ain’t movin’ like they used to, I think I need a new sellin’ spot,” Albert complains one morning as he and Race wash up side-by-side. “Anybody got any ideas?”

Of course, _everybody_ has ideas, and the chaos of the assorted newsboys of various levels of experience all chiming in their opinions takes them all the way to the distribution yard.

It’s shaping up to be a stunningly normal day, Race figures. The Delanceys are dicks right outta the gate, which is pretty normal. It wouldn’t be a Monday if Oscar and/or Morris didn’t pick some dumb fight with one of the boys, which tends to end with them picking a fight with Jack, since he won’t let them pick on anybody but him.

(If, maybe, on this one occasion – and of course never any other day – the fight were actually picked by Race himself, that’s his business.)

It wouldn’t be any day, really.

So maybe Race antagonizes the Delancey boys a little, and then maybe he antagonizes Weasel a little bit, too. He’s in a bit of a mood, and anyway it ain’t like Oscar and Morris didn’t have it coming. Beating up guys just trying to get by ain’t respectable, and Race may not have much to his name but he does have a goddamn moral code.

He’s settled in to flip through the morning paper, trying to decide if there’s anything worth highlighting or if he’s going to have to full on make shit up, when –

“Excuse me,” the new kid says, flagging Weasel down, “I paid for twenty, but you gave me nineteen.”

And Weasel kicks up a fuss, because he doesn’t like getting called out on shorting new kids who aren’t supposed to know any better. Jack jumps in to new kid’s aid, because of course Jack does, because Jack has a big brother instinct a mile wide.

Race figures Jack would’ve stepped in no matter what, but the fact that new kid is accompanied by a _baby_ new kid, bright and shiny as a new penny, probably helps. Jack is nothing if not a sucker for the littles.

New Kid – whose baby brother helpfully declares him David, only for Jack to immediately rename him _Davey_ – is tall and skinny and anxious-looking, one hand gripping the strap of his bag with a vice grip, the other shoved so far into his pocket Race can’t help wondering if he’s punched a hole through it. He’s got dark hair, the ends curling up around the brim of his cap, and light eyes that are darting from Jack to the rest of the boys to Jack to his little brother back to Jack. He seems skeptical about Jack’s proposal to take them on as partners, which is probably fair, but at the same time this kid is practically screaming for some direction and Jack is where he’s gonna get it.

“My two bits come off the top, then we’ll split the rest seventy-thirty,” Jack says, which is honestly hilarious because Race knows better than anybody that Jack couldn’t bear to actually short a new kid like that.

“Fifty-fifty,” Little Brother says, crossing his arms. Race is sure the kid has a name, pretty sure he even said it, but he missed it. “You wouldn’t try to pull a fast one on a little kid, woul’ja?”

Jack gapes, stunned. It’s all Race can do not to laugh out loud. “Sixty-forty, and that’s my final offer.

Little Brother looks at Davey for direction, his unspoken question clear. Davey nods.

“Deal,” Little Brother says.

Jack spits into his palm for Little Brother to shake, and Little Brother mimics him.

“That’s disgusting,” Davey says, his nose wrinkled in distaste.

“That’s just business,” Jack replies with a wink. Then he turns to look around at the rest of the boys. “What are all’a you waitin’ for, huh? Hit the streets, boys!”

They don’t wait to be told twice.

Race doesn’t give the new kids much thought once they’re out of his sight. He’s got a shit headline to grapple with and Albert pining over someone who’s definitely also interested in him to ignore, so his day is pretty full up.

Still, Jack is late back that night, which is odd, and that drifts Race’s thoughts back toward his new partners.

“You good, Jacky?” Race asks, putting out his cigar and standing up as Jack approaches him on the front steps of the lodging house. There’s a haunted look to Jack’s eyes that Race has seen there before, but wasn’t there this morning.

“I’m always good, Racer,” Jack says, which is as close to an admission that he’s shaken up about something as Race is going to get. Maybe if he gets with Crutchie later tonight they can coax the details out of him, but even that seems unlikely.

Race suppresses a sigh; Jack has a chronic urge to take care of everybody around him while laughing off every attempt from anyone else to look after _him_.

He lets Jack throw an arm around his shoulders and start talking dreamily about some girl he saw earlier tonight, leading him up into the building like everything is fine.

And yeah, everything probably _is_ fine, but Race has spent enough of the last few years doing Jack maintenance to know that he and Crutchie won’t _know_ if everything isn’t fine until it’s too late to do anything about it.

He resolves to ask the new kid about it in the morning – odds are whatever’s got Jack shaken up happened when the three of them were still together.

Only Davey and his brother show up a little after most of the other newsies – though Jack’s running late for reasons known only to himself – and Race can’t resist the urge to tease him a little.

“They got a mother?” Race asks, one hand on his hip and the other turning his cigar over in his fingertips. “I was gonna get me one.”

“What’d’ja do with the one you had?” Romeo says.

Race opens his mouth to respond, but Buttons cuts in, “He traded her for a box’a cigars!”

“Hey,” Race says, playing along, “they was _Coronas_!”

“We have a father, too,” Little Brother says in his sweet little kid voice.

“A mother _and a father_!” Buttons says, crossing his arms and playing impressed.

Davey looks moderately uncomfortable, but Little Brother is completely unfazed.

Of course, it really only lasts a minute because the headline’s going up and -

“New newsie price,” Albert reads, _“sixty cents per hundred_?”

“What the _fuck_?” says Mush.

“Is that news?” Davey asks nervously.

“Is to me,” says Finch.

“They jacked up the fucking price – _ten cents_ more a hundred!” Albert says.

“I could eat _two days_ on a dime!” Finch says.

“I’ll be sleepin’ on the street again,” Crutchie says in a low voice.

Race elbows him. “Ain’t like you don’t sleep outside most nights anyway.”

“Racer,” Crutchie says, more tired than upset.

“We’ll figure it out, Crutch,” Race replies in a lower voice.

“What’cha waitin’ around for?” Jack says, walking into distribution like he owns the place and isn’t almost comically late.

“Jack, take a look at this,” Crutchie says, waving up toward the headline board.

“Like Pulitzer don’t make enough already!” says Romeo.

Jack opens his mouth, then closes it, frowning. “It’s gotta be a gag. Some kinda joke.”

He walks over to Weasel, smacking a pair of quarters down in front of him. “I’ll take a hundred,” he says, like a challenge.

“Hundred’ll cost ya sixty,” Weasel replies.

“I ain’t payin’ no sixty,” Jack says flatly.

“Then make way for someone who will.”

Jack declares then that the boys will take their business to the Journal – only to be cut off by Specs, who’d been planning to sell the Journal today, who arrives with the news that the Journal hiked their price too.

Weasel almost gleefully informs them that it’ll be the same no matter what paper they go to – the newspaper owners of New York decided today would be an excellent day to fuck over a couple thousand children.

Race’s heart is racing; anxiety that’s been building since he first saw those words going up on the chalkboard threatening to overtake him.

Little Brother – who Race is almost sure he heard Davey call Les earlier – shoves some of the older boys away from Jack, insisting that they’re _crowding him_ as he sits down to think.

“Jack?” Les asks in his sweet little voice, “You still thinkin’?”

“Sure he is,” says Race, swallowing back some of his anxiety to make a joke just like he always does, “can’cha smell the smoke?”

Finch smacks him with his hat, but it breaks some of the tension.

“C’mere, c’mere,” Jack says, waving the boys in. “Nobody’s payin’ no new nothin’, you hear me? _Nobody_ gets to that window till they put the price back where it belongs.”

“What, you mean like a strike?” Davey says skeptically.

Something in the air shifts.

“You heard Davey,” Jack says, nodding, “we’re on strike!”

“I didn’t say that!”

“We’ll shut down this paper just like those workers shut down the trolleys!”

“And the cops’ll bust our heads,” Finch cuts in nervously. “Half them trolley workers is laid up with broke bones.”

“Cops ain’t gonna care about a bunch’a kids,” Jack says, waving him off. “Right, Davey?”

“No, no, no,” says Davey. He stands up, pulling away. “Don’t drag me into this –“ he grabs his brother by the arm and pulls him away, “I’m just here trying to feed my family.”

“What,” says Jack, getting up and following him closely, “and the rest of is here on playtime?”

Les tugs his arm out of his brother’s hand, darting back toward the rest of the boys. He doesn’t start slowing down quite soon enough and barrels into Race at near top speed, but Race is used to catching littles at a run so he’s not exactly fazed by it. He puts his hands on Les’s shoulders, trying to calm him a little.

“You can’t strike,” Davey says, a tone to his voice that suggests he may be grasping at straws a bit, “you’re not a union.”

“What if I says we is?” says Jack.

“There’s a lotta stuff you gotta have to be a union,” says Davey. He’s got his hands buried deep in his pockets again. “Like – like membership.”

Jack waves back across the rest of the boys. “Whaddya call these guys, huh?”

“And – and officers,” Davey says, though each protest feels weaker than the last.

“I nominate Jack president!” Crutchie pipes in.

“Aw, gee,” Jack says without turning around, “I’m touched.”

“What about a statement of purpose?”

There’s something in Davey’s voice – he’s still resistant, he’s still reluctant, but Race can tell he’s leading them through doing this right, maybe even against his own better judgement.

“What’s a statement of purpose?” Race asks. Davey meets his eye, a funny kind of thoughtful expression on his face.

“A reason for forming the union,” Davey explains.

“Well what reason did the trolley workers have?” Jack pushes. He’s up in Davey’s space, still, and Davey’s eyes flick back to him.

“I don’t know!” says Davey. “Wages, work hours. Safety on the job?”

“Well who don’t need that?” Jack pushes even further into Davey’s space. “I bet’cha if your _father_ had a union, you wouldn’t need to be out here sellin’ papes right now.”

Race doesn’t know what that’s about, precisely, but Davey shrugs.

“Yeah, I –“

“ _So_ ,” says Jack, turning back toward the boys at large, “our union is hereby formed to watch each other’s backs!”

“Wouldn’t our strike be more effective if somebody in charge knew about it?” Crutchie asks.

Race hops up. “I’d be more than happy to tell Weasel myself.”

“Yeah!” says Jack, grinning. “And who tells Pulitzer, huh?” He looks over at where Davey still stands – right where Jack left him a few feet away. “Davey?”

Davey’s jaw works a little, like he’s chewing on the inside of his lip a bit, before he takes a deep breath, sets his shoulders, and walks back to the group. “I s’pose you do, Mr. President.”

Jack’s grin – which had fallen away in favor of a more serious expression when he’d turned to Davey – comes back with a vengeance. “ _We_ do, Davey. You’n me. So what do we tell him?”

And the thing is, after that what started as a half-thought throwaway comment from Jack turns into a strike. Turns into Davey declaring them the Newsboy Union, with a grin on his face bright enough to match Jack’s.

Davey, Jack, and Les make an attempt at talking to Pulitzer that doesn’t exactly go great, but everyone’s still in pretty high spirits.

They divvy up assignments to spread the word to the rest of the newsies of New York. Race hops up immediately, claiming Midtown.

He shrugs off the look that Jack shoots him over the other boys’ heads. Yeah, Race is friendly with Brooklyn, but _he’s_ not gonna be the one to pitch Jack’s harebrained scheme to Spot Conlon. They _need_ Brooklyn on their side, and the only chance they’ve got at swinging Spot is if Jack goes himself, and Jack damn well knows it. Friendships be damned – Spot won’t budge for anybody short of another leader, and maybe not even for that. Jack tries halfheartedly to get anybody, _anybody_ , else to go before sighing deeply and giving in.

“Fine, me’n Davey’ll take Brooklyn,” he says, and he’s looking right at Race when he says it.

“Me?” says Davey, twisting to look up at Jack. “No! I –“

“Why’s everybody so afraid of Brooklyn?” a new voice asks.

A girl’s voice.

Race looks over at the door, right along with everyone else. Sure enough, yeah, there’s a girl working her way around the tables toward their group. She’s got a notepad in hand and a page of newsprint, and she’s asking Jack questions like she’s a reporter. Maybe she is, from the way Jack’s talking back to her.

The thing that keeps distracting Race – even from the slightly irritating attitude she’s taking while trying to get them to trust her with their story – is how _clean_ she is. Both literally and metaphorically.

Because, see, all the newsies are poor. Even the kids who still have families are from poor families. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be newsies. And that means that every single one of them is a little the worse for wear somehow or other, with clothes that are worn faded and repaired and patched until they can’t be anymore.

This girl’s clothes are _impeccable_. She’s got a matching skirt and vest on, and they’re both this clean, clear purpley pink color that Race is absolutely transfixed by. There’s a newness to her clothes that Race can’t even begin to fathom – he can’t remember the last time he actually had a brand new shirt, let alone a whole outfit as shiny new as this. It’s vibrant in a way that _screams_ expense, with none of the faded, worn-out quality that would suggest that at the very least she’s gotten a lot of use out of them. She’s probably in her late teens, maybe two or three years older than Race himself, and there’s no fucking way she’s not from money.

(She’s a _girl reporter_ ; there’s no fucking way she’s not from money.)

Which means her condescending tone, while obnoxious, is understandable. A girl like that’s got no concept of what it’s like for kids who have to fend for themselves on a day-to-day basis. She’s looking at a room full of people she probably can’t even imagine having the level of independence and sheer stubbornness that this will take.

Her presence here, however, whatever’s driving her to be on their side of this mess? Much less so.

Until she says –

“I’m just busting out of the social pages. But if you give me the exclusive, let me run with the story, I’ll find you the space.”

Because if they can pull this off, yeah. Maybe it’ll be front page worthy news.

And if _they’re_ front page news, so is the reporter who wrote the article.

It’s a bold move, Race thinks. A gamble. If this works out, it could be a promotion for her, a chance at being a real reporter. If it fails, she could lose her career.

Race can get behind a gamble.

They split up not long after. Race sees, as he’s making his way out of the deli, the girl flag Jack down. An interview with their fearless leader will fit right into the story she’s spinning.

He makes his hike out to Midtown, and it’s early enough in the day that he finds their leader, Stitches, still out at his usual selling spot.

“Racetrack?” he says as Race approaches, clearly surprised. “What’cha doin’ here?”

“Lookin’ for you,” Race replies. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Price’a papes went up this morning.”

“No shit,” says Stitches. “So don’t waste my time, ‘cause unlike you, I ain’t sold out yet.”

“I ain’t sold out,” Race says.

“Well you better not be lookin’ to sell _here_.”

“Lower Manhattan ain’t sellin’ today, Stitches,” says Race. “We ain’t sellin’ ‘till Pulitzer puts the price back where it fuckin’ belongs.”

“Then you’re gonna fuckin’ starve,” says Stitches. He holds a hand up for Race to wait while he steps over to sell a paper to a passing businessman, then returns to their conversation. “I ain’t draggin’ my boys into some shit scheme’a Jack Kelly’s.”

“It ain’t just some scheme, Stitch, we’re on strike proper-like,” Race says firmly. “We made ourselves a union an’everythin’. Jack’s got this schoolboy new kid on his side, an’ Davey knows what’s up. He’s makin’ sure we do this right. You with us?”

Stitches hums. “Racer – Riots at the trolley strike, sir! Read all about it! – fuck, Racer, I get it, okay. But I can’t afford to risk my boys’ livelihoods on this. Maybe it’ll work, but if it doesn’t – ten cents ain’t worth starving over.”

“Ten cents could leave us starving anyway,” Race argues. “Stitches, c’mon.”

“You ain’t wrong. How’s about a compromise, huh?” says Stitches, one hand on his hip. “You got our support –“

“You won’t regret this, Stitches.”

“ _Only_ if you’ve got Brooklyn with you, too,” Stitches finishes.

Race blanches. “Stitch –“

“Spot’s a good judge’a this shit, Race, and you know it. He won’t join up ‘less you got a fightin’ chance, and I won’t join up ‘less Spot’s with you.”

Race takes his hat off and drags his fingers through his hair. “Fine. Okay. I’ll take it. But I’ll hold you to that, Stitches.”

“I keep my word, Racetrack.”

“See that’cha do.”

Race’s walk back home is more subdued, but he’s hopeful. Jack is convincing, and Davey is real smart, and maybe they’ll be able to swing Spot and it won’t matter that Stitches’s support is conditional.

They scrape together their savings to make sure everybody’s got a bed tonight, and Race is prepared to sleep on the roof with Jack and Crutchie if one of the younger boys can’t make rent, but he doesn’t have to.

He spends a fair amount of the evening sitting side-by-side with Crutchie on the fire escape anyway.

“What’cha think, Crutch, really?” Race asks, leaning on his friend.

Crutchie leans back on him. “I think it’s risky, but it’s better than lettin’ Pulitzer think he can get away with walkin’ all over us. How was Stitches?”

“Not impressed,” Race admits. “He’s worried for’is boys.”

“Pssh, that don’t make him special,” says Crutchie. “I’m worried, too. And I know you are, so’s Jack.”

“As fuck,” says Race. “The shitty thing’s, like, all these other guys are concerned with keepin’ their kids outta trouble – never mind that with no backup, _our_ kids ain’t gonna stand half a chance.”

“We’ll be a’right,” Crutchie says firmly. “We’ve gotta be.”

“Crutch, you think we’re – this is the right thing, yeah?”

“I dunno,” Crutchie replies honestly. Crutchie is rarely anything but honest. “But we’re doin’ it, and we can’t back down.”

Race hums. This is getting a little heavy, and there’s gonna be enough of that tomorrow. He elbows Crutchie. “Hey, speakin’a not backin’ down, you ever gonna put me outta my misery an’ tell Albo you’re into him?”

Crutchie swats at his arm. “ _Never_ , and you ain’t gonna say shit to’im either.”

“Ugh, _why_?” says Race. “I’m tell you, Chuck, he likes you.”

“Racer –“

“Gimme one good reason.”

“After the strike, how ‘bout?” says Crutchie. “There’s too much going on right now.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” says Race, rolling his eyes. “The tension is fucking killing me.”

_“I’ll_ kill you if you don’t shut up,” Crutchie says. He’s grinning now, though, and that’s what Race was aiming for.

The next morning dawns bright and early and hopeless. There’s not a single other newsie outside of their group who shows up, because every single other leader was waiting to see what Spot Conlon would do, and then Spot Conlon didn’t fucking show.

So yeah, Race isn’t feeling so optimistic. He knows he should be trying to shore up other boys’ spirits, knows that’s his _job_ as Jack’s second, but he just – he can’t.

“We can’t back down now – Davey!” Jack says, reaching for the taller boy. “You tell’em.”

“Jack,” Davey replies, his eyebrows pushing together slightly. He sighs. Then he makes a beeline for Race. He puts his hand on Race’s shoulder, meeting his eye. “Now’s the time to seize the day. We’ve – we’re only gonna get one chance at it, and this is that moment.”

“Davey, I dunno,” Race says softly.

Davey squeezes his shoulder. “I do.”

Race shakes his head.

Davey sighs, moving on to talk to an equally dejected Finch. He moves around to each boy with that same quiet intensity, a hand on a shoulder here, a quiet word of reassurance there. Race can see spirits starting to lift.

A few more boys arrive, but they’re all Manhattan latecomers. Crutchie’s made a little banner that he’s pinned to his crutch, but it’s – it’s just so fucking sad, honestly. Race can’t even bring himself to commit to complimenting it.

“It’s great, Crutchie,” Davey says sincerely. He pats Crutchie’s arm before pulling Race aside again. “Look, I get that this is scary. I really do. But we’ve got to have courage, Racer, and courage isn’t about not being afraid. It’s – it’s about being afraid and knowing you’re doing the right thing and pushing through anyway.” He shakes Race’s shoulder gently. “We’ve got to push through, Race.”

“Davey –“

“It’s not just about _us_ ,” says Davey, glancing back toward Jack.

Jack nods, stepping forward and throwing an arm around Davey’s shoulders. “So we’re on our own. We’re still standing together.”

“There may not be many of us, but we’re not going anywhere,” Davey adds firmly.

Jack and Davey are _so_ certain.

It would be easy enough to brush off if it were Jack – Jack is nothing if not a man of many passions, who throws himself fully into whatever he does. But Davey –

Race Higgins has known Davey Jacobs for two days, but in those two days he’s gotten one very firm impression of the older boy.

Davey Jacobs is _smart_. He’s not the kind of kid who would let himself get drawn in by pretty words or half-thought plans; he wouldn’t have gotten involved in this if he didn’t think they could pull it off, if he didn’t think they were doing it right and that they were right for doing it.

And he’s looking at Race like _please, Racer, take this leap with us_.

And Race –

Race can’t say no.

For this one, soaring moment, it really seems like this is going their way, support or no support. A handful of kids who’ve been paid to scab show up, but between Jack and Davey they win them over to their side.

Reporter gal, who Jack calls Katherine, shows up with a camera and catches them at their highest peak of triumph.

And then it all falls apart.

Cops and strikebreakers show up, and the boys scatter. Not fast enough, though, never fast enough. Race sees Jack take a couple hits, and Davey. He sees one of the Delancey’s make a grab for little Les of all people, which draws a ferocity from Davey that Race honestly wouldn’t have expected.

Race himself takes a blow to the head that has him down on the ground and a little dizzy, and he’s got to get up, he’s _got_ to get up or he’s gonna get dragged off to the fucking Refuge, and Race cannot go back there. He drags himself to his feet and makes a break for the street, fading screams behind him.

He can’t help Crutchie now, not when he can barely walk himself.

He barrels full speed into Davey, who looks like he might make back for the square.

“Davey!” Race says, wrapping his arms around the older boy’s waist and holding him back. “Davey, c’mon, we gotta get outta here.”

“Crutchie –“

“I know,” says Race, tears pricking at his eyes. “I _know_. But we can’t – there’s nothin’ you an’ I can do now but not get caught too, you hear me? Davey!”

Davey turns to meet Race’s eye. His right cheek is gonna be bruised something awful in a few hours, and his eyes are shining with unshed tears. “Racer, this is all my fault.”

“No,” Race says firmly. “ _No._ We voted, Davey, we all thought this was the right thing to do. This is not. On. You. But we gotta get outta here, Daves, do you _hear_ me?”

“I hear you,” says Davey, nodding shakily.

“C’mon,” says Race. He tugs Davey in the direction of the lodging house. “I saw Specs grab Lessy, m’sure they’ll be back with the other boys at the house. You get eyes on Jack?”

Davey shakes his head. “I don’t know where he went.”

“Neither do I,” Race says. “Shit, shit, _shit_. Davey –“

“What, Race?” Davey asks. He sounds tired, but in a way that makes it seem like one more thing might push him past his breaking point.

“I’m Jack’s second, Daves,” Race says in a small voice. “If we don’t know where Jack is – that means _I’m –_ I can’t do this, Davey.”

Davey stops, pulling Race to a halt, too. “You can, Race. I know you can. And I’m with you, alright? I know that doesn’t – that’s not much, I know I’m new, but – I’m with you. You’re not alone.”

Race drops his head onto Davey’s shoulder for a moment, taking a shaky breath. “Fuck, okay. Yeah. Thanks, Daves.”

“We’ll be alright,” Davey says, and Race almost believes him.

They’re the last two back, not counting Jack and Crutchie. Specs and Buttons have been managing the other boys till now, getting everybody’s injuries managed and getting everybody’s heads on straight. Davey makes a break for Les as soon as he sees him, pulling his little brother into his arms in a tight hug.

Race feels a little adrift, not sure exactly how he can help anybody when he’s falling to pieces himself, but then his eyes fall on Albert, who’s got his knees pulled to his chest on a lower bunk. _Shit_.

Race throws himself down on the bed next to Albert, who seems to barely register him.

“Is it true, Racer?” he asks quietly, his voice scratchy. “Romes said he saw the Delanceys –“ he chokes, and doesn’t continue.

“They took him,” Race replies. He reaches for Albert’s hand and squeezes it. “He’ll be okay, Al, he’s sturdy as fuck.”

“He’s in the fucking Refuge, Race,” says Albert. “Were _you_ okay?”

Race takes a shaky breath. “We’ll get’im back, and then we’ll just have to help hold’im together ‘till he _is_ okay, how ‘bout?”

“I never told him –“

“He’s not dead, Al,” Race says, squeezing Albert’s hand again. “He’s not gone forever. Tell him when he gets back.”

Albert still looks lost, still looks a little broken, but just a little less so. That’s all Race can do for now, save pray. And Race does a lot of praying that night.

(Can people count as lost things? It seems ambiguous, but he prays to St. Anthony anyway.)

Jack doesn’t show up that night.

He doesn’t show up the next morning.

They gather at Jacobi’s, because Mr. Jacobi is nice to them and lets them take up his space and drink his water. Race is still pretty much a wreck, just like the rest of them, but fortunately Race graduated with honors from the Jack Kelly school of shitty coping methods and is about three seconds away from turning this whole thing into a joke as soon as he can find the right punchline.

Enter Katherine Plumber, punchline in hand.

“Woul’ja look’it, that’s _me!”_ Race crows, pointing to his own face printed smack in the middle of the front page of the New York Sun. “Racetrack Higgins is front page news! I’m famous!”

The boys start passing the paper around, each looking with great interest for their face in the photo.

“I heard they arrested Crutchie,” Katherine says to Davey, “did they get Jack, too?”

“The Delanceys are spreadin’ the story Jack took off soon’s the cops showed up,” Albert says, a sour look on his face.

“Jack don’t run from no fight!” Les says, shoving Albert.

“Cool it, shortstop, I’m just reportin’ the news,” Albert says, ruffling Les’s hair with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

The initial high of Katherine showing up with the paper is starting to wear off already, and Race –

The thing is, Race isn’t the same kind of leader as Jack Kelly. He isn’t, he can’t be. He doesn’t have Jack’s gravity, or his overwhelming urge to parent-sibling every down-on-their-luck kid that walks through the World’s gate.

What Race does have in spades is _energy_. He may not be able to really truly lift spirits, but he sure as fuck can distract.

“Can we stow the seriosity for long enough to drink in the fucking moment?” Race says, snatching the paper out of JoJo’s hands and walking over to shove it into Albert’s chest. “I’m _famous_.”

“Famous,” Albert echoes flatly.

“Famous!” Race repeats.

“What of it?” says Henry.

“Well –“ says Race, just now realizing that he started this without a plan, “well, are you stupid, or what? When you’re famous –“ _shit_ –“the world is your… erster.”

“Your what?” says JoJo.

“Your erster,” Race repeats, more confident this time. He now, at the very least, knows where he’s going with this.

“You’ve lost me,” says Romeo.

“Aw, c’mon,” says Race. He makes a hand gesture that looks sort of like an oyster and snaps it at the boys a few times. “Your fancy clam with the pearl inside!”

There’s an uproar of _“Oyster, Race! That’s a fucking oyster!”_

Mush cuts through it all, from his cross-legged seat on a table. “Sure, Racer. How much does being famous _pay_ , though, huh?”

Ah, well. Screw you, too, Mush. Poking holes in another man’s absurd coping mechanism.

“You don’t _need_ money when you’re famous!” Race blurts. “They give you whatever you want, gratis.”

“Sure,” says Henry. “Such as?”

What would Race want, if he were famous?

“A pair’a brand new shoes. Matchin’ laces an’all,” says Race, nodding. He tosses the paper to Romeo. “Whaddya want, huh? If we was really gonna get whatever we wanted?”

“Permanent box all my own at Sheepshead,” says Romeo, after a moment.

He passes the paper up to Henry, who takes it as a cue to add on his own wish. It spirals from there, kind of a game, kind of a joke. Race declares them all the kings of New York, which just spurs the game on.

Somebody passes the paper to Davey, who hesitates.

“C’mon, Davey, what do _you_ want?” Race prompts. This is a game that relies on momentum; if Davey hesitates too long it could all fall back apart.

Davey blinks, then passes the paper to Katherine. “A regular beat for our star reporter here!”

It’s a deflection. Race _knows_ it’s a deflection. He doesn’t know _why_ , but he knows he doesn’t have time to question Davey now.

“You’re _right_!” Race crows, hip checking Davey out of the way so he can pull Katherine up from her seat by the hands. “ _She’s_ the king of New York! The rest of you can all fuck off!”

“Race!” Davey says, sounding startled but amused.

“She _is!”_

That gets the boys going again, and after whirling Katherine around a few times Race settles back against a table next to Davey.

“You dodged the question,” Race says quietly.

Davey gives Race this funny look, like he’s somewhere between surprised and amused. “Anybody ever tell you that you’re really fuckin’ smart, Racer?”

“Smartass, usually,” says Race, shrugging. He chuckles. “I ain’t heard you swear before, Davey.”

“You’ve only known me a few days,” Davey replies. He winks. “Don’t tell my mama, though.”

“I won’t,” Race says, grinning. “You’re _still_ dodging the question, you know.”

“I know,” says Davey. “It’s just – I don’t want anything I can – I don’t know. Anything I can _say_ , you know? Anything I can get.”

“Yeah,” says Race. “I get that. All’s I want right now is for these boys to be safe, for us to be able to pull this off and go back to work without gettin’ fucked over. But that ain’t what they needed to hear.”

“No, it isn’t,” Davey agrees. He sweeps a hand through his hair, leaving his curls fluffed up in the front. It’s cute; for half a second the tired tension in every inch of Davey falls away in favor of the fluffy haired kid with the soft smile he ought to get to be.

“How old are you, Davey?” Race asks, suddenly realizing he doesn’t know. Davey’s got a young face, but he carries himself like he’s got decades of stress weighing him down.

“Seventeen,” says Davey.

Probably not even a whole year older than Race.

“What about you, Racer?” Davey asks, elbowing him.

“I’m sixteen,” Race replies. “And a half, if we’re getting technical.”

Davey snorts. “Sure.”

“Crutchie’s sixteen, too,” Race says quietly, a wave of worry crashing over him. “Be seventeen in October.”

“We’ll get him back,” Davey says, just as quiet as Race. “We _will_. Are you two close?”

Race sighs, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. “Yeah. He’s – Crutch and I are like brothers. I’ve known’im since we was just kids.”

“You’re still kids,” says Davey.

“Yeah,” says Race. “But it ain’t the same. Got responsibilities and shit now.”

Davey hums. “Yeah.” He bumps his shoulder against Race’s. “For what it’s worth, Race, you’re doing a great job. With the responsibility.”

“I don’t know about that,” says Race.

“All this?” Davey says, waving across the boys. Looking at them now, it’s hard to remember how down they’d all been not even an hour ago. “The newsies of Lower Manhattan, kings of New York? This was fucking _genius_ , Racer. I’d never have been able to come up with something like this.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t come up with shit to actually help the strike, so we’re even,” says Race.

Davey nudges him again, and Race turns to look at him. “That’s okay, you know. You don’t have to have all the answers. Neither do I. We’ve just gotta work together, and we’ll figure it out.”

“I wish Jack were here,” Race admits. He doesn’t mean to say it, but it slips out anyway.

Davey sighs. “Yeah, me too.”

The two of them sit side-by-side in silence for a little while. It only breaks when someone new walks into the deli. Someone who’s, to be honest, a huge fucking shock.

“Where’s Jack Kelly?” says Hotshot, Brooklyn’s second-in-command. She’s got another Brooklyn kid on her heels, too, both of them with fierce looks in their eyes.

“Jack ain’t here, can I take a message?” Race says, standing up.

“Race,” Hotshot says. Her eyes move from him to Davey, who’s stood up, too, and moved to Race’s side. “Mouth.”

“Hotshot,” Race replies, nodding in greeting. “What’cha got to say?”

“Spot says whatever your next move is for the strike, you can count on Brooklyn,” Hotshot says.

“Really?” Davey blurts.

Hotshot’s mouth quirks into a little half-smile. “Yeah. Really. So don’t waste the opportunity.”

“Thanks, Hots,” says Race. “We’ll let’cha know.”

“See that you do,” Hotshot replies. Then she turns on her heel and walks out, her companion at her side.

There’s a beat of stunned silence as they leave, before the room erupts in cheers. If they’ve got Brooklyn, that means they’ve got _everybody_.

Davey actually pulls Race into a hug so enthusiastic his feet leave the floor.

“This is good,” Davey says once he’s set Race back on his feet. “This is _great!_ ”

“What’s our next move, though, Davey?” Race asks.

Davey ponders that for a moment. “If the other boroughs really do follow Brooklyn’s lead, then we need to – we need to get as many newsies as we can in one place. A rally or something, after working hours tomorrow. That way we can make a plan as one unified, uh, union.”

“Where’re we gonna hold a rally?” Finch pipes up from nearby.

“I have an idea,” Davey says. He glances at Race. “And a sneaking suspicion where Jack is, too, now I think of it.”

“Go,” says Race. “You know where to find us.”

Davey nods and leaves.

A little over an hour later, Davey does find them again – now back at the lodging house, where Kloppman is being entirely too generous to the striking newsboys, for certain. And sure enough, when Davey arrives, he’s got Jack in tow.

“Jack!” Race shouts the instant he sees him, running over. He’s stood up so fast he’s feeling a little dizzy, but it doesn’t matter. It’s worth it. Jack is here and in one piece and Race wants to hug him and hit him in nearly equal measure.

“Hey, Racer,” Jack says. He catches Race in a tight hug, burying his face in Race’s curls.

“Why didn’t you come home?” Race asks. He’s uncomfortably aware of how close he his to bursting into tears, which would not be a good look right now. But the thing is, Race has been holding himself together with bits of string for the last twenty-four hours for the sake of everybody else, and now Jack is back and he’s ready to fall apart. “Jack, Crutchie’s in the Refuge. Why didn’t you come _home_?”

“I know,” says Jack, “I know. I’m sorry. Davey’s got my head on straight again. I’m okay, see?”

“I can’t lose both of you,” Race mumbles.

Jack squeezes him, then pushes him back by the shoulders so they can look each other in the eye. “You ain’t gonna lose me, okay, Race? I’m here, I’m fine. I’m sorry for disappearin’. Dave says you’s been doin’ a real good job takin’ care’a the boys, though – Race, I’m so proud of you.”

Race blinks hard, trying to will away the tears in his eyes. “Thanks, Jacky.”

Jack pats his shoulder, then fully releases him. “I can’t stick around too long. I just wanna check up on everybody, ‘fore I go talk to Joe about our rally. Figure it’s only right he gets an invite, yeah?”

“Sure,” says Race, laughing.

“How’s everybody doin’?” Jack asks, moving fully into the room with Race. “The littles okay? Shit – how’s Al?”

“The little guys are fine, just a little shaken up. Everybody else has been in worse shape before, I reckon,” says Race. “Al’s a wreck, but he’s doin’ a real good job pretendin’ not to be. Be nice if you could talk to’im before you go, though.”

Jack nods. “Yeah, I will.”

He and Davey start handing out assignments to pass along the time and place for the rally, with most of the boys who’d been runners on the first day going back to the same area they’d talked to before.

Race and Davey are staying put, though, to coordinate the actual event while Jack goes on his mission to rub their plans in Pulitzer’s face.

(Finch, despite his assertions that Spot Conlon makes him feel “a little jittery” is sent in Davey’s place to Brooklyn, while Smalls is sent to talk to Stitches in Midtown.)

They’re expecting Jack back within a few hours, but he doesn’t show.

And he doesn’t show all of the next day, either.

The longer Jack is gone, the more visibly anxious Davey is. Race doesn’t know how to get through Davey’s head that he’s got this, but he’s dying to. Davey may be new, but he’s fully got the trust of the Manhattan boys – he’s fully got Race’s trust, in particular. Davey’s smart as fuck and he’s been able to crystalize all kinds of vague ideas into real live plans, and that level of practicality alone would have earned him the boys’ respect.

They’re standing onstage at the theatre and Jack still isn’t there –

“Hey, Davey, where’s Jack?” someone calls from the house, and then everybody’s chanting Jack’s name, and Davey looks like he’s going to throw up.

Davey ducks toward the wings, talking in a low voice with Medda Larkin. She shakes her head and pats Davey’s shoulder, and he looks even _more_ like he’s going to throw up.

But then he shakes it off, steps to center stage, and silences the room.

It’s a funny thing, really, how different Davey is for that moment when he’s out in front of everybody. There’s a confidence in the tone of his voice and the set of his shoulders that Race hasn’t seen there before.

It’s gone in an instant when Jack shows up, replaced with a relaxed relief that turns into building tension again almost immediately.

“Vote no!” Jack finishes, and Race feels like he’s gonna be sick. He doesn’t know where Jack’s been or what he’s been doing, but apparently whatever it was has left him with an urge to stab his friends in the back.

Race has a distressingly clear view as four things happen in very quick succession.

One: Spot grabs Jack by the front of his shirt and punches him.

Two: Jack makes a break for the wings, where he’s met by an older man who presses a bundle of cash into his hands. It’s more money than Race has ever seen in one place in his entire life.

Three: Les Jacobs runs over and taps Jack’s arm, only for Jack to turn with his hand raised as if to instinctively strike him. He doesn’t, but Les runs from him in surprise and fear.

Four: All the color drains from Davey’s face, and he takes a stumbling step backward before turning and running into the wings in the other direction.

The whole room has erupted into utter chaos, and Race is sure if they don’t regain some control quickly there’ll be no coming back from this.

So Race makes a few decisions all at once.

“Spot,” he says, tapping the other boy on the arm.

“What, Race?” Spot says, his tone dangerous.

“Get the boys under control,” Race says. “Please. I’ll go get Davey, we’ve gotta regroup.”

“Your leader just made it clear where Manhattan stands.”

“Jack made clear where _Jack_ stands, and God knows why,” Race says, crossing his arms. He swallows, trying to clear the tight feeling in his throat. “Manhattan is still in this. Please, Spot.”

Spot gives him a stony look for a moment, assessing.

He must like what he sees, because he gives Race a curt nod. “Go get Davey.”

Race nods gratefully, and darts away. Before looking for Davey, though, he’s got to manage Les.

He catches the younger boy by the shoulders, dropping to one knee in front of him to look him in the face. “Les. Lessy, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Les says shakily.

“He didn’t hurt you?” Race asks. He doesn’t think Jack actually made contact, but he’s got to be sure.

Les shakes his head.

“Okay,” says Race. “Go find Albert, okay? Tell him I said to walk you home.”

“I wanna stay,” Les says. “Davey –“

“I’ll look out for Davey, okay?” says Race. “Just go home, let’cha mama take care of you.” Little kids love having responsibilities, Race remembers, especially when things feel out of control. “Do me a favor and look out for Al, too, would you? He’s been having a rough couple’a days.”

Les nods solemnly. “Okay. I will.”

“Good,” says Race. “Okay, Lessy, I’ll see you tomorrow. Take good care of Albert for me.”

Les throws his arms around Race’s neck for a moment, then runs off. Race stands, taking a breath.

Much more complicated will be wrangling the older Jacobs brother, Race thinks.

He finds Davey just backstage, leaning against the wall and looking dazed. Tentatively, he taps Davey’s shoulder.

Davey doesn’t respond.

“Davey?” Race says softly. “ _Davey_. Daves!”

“Race?” Davey blinks a few times, shaking his head a bit and meeting Race’s eye.

“Thank God,” says Race. “Davey, you with me?”

Davey nods. “I – fuck, Race –“

“Yeah,” says Race. He pulls Davey into a hug, and he can feel the slightly shuddering breaths Davey is taking. “Yeah, Davey, I know. But we gotta get back out there. We gotta –“

“Go back?” Davey repeats, shaking his head. “Racer, I can’t go back – I can’t –“

“Davey, this can’t end because Jack –“ this sentence feels bitter in Race’s mouth even before he finishes it, “- because Jack’s a dirty traitor. He sold us out. But that don’t mean the rest of us can’t still do this. We got _you_ , Davey, you’s always been the brains’a this operation, anyway.”

“Race –“

Race leans back to look Davey in the eye. “Davey, please. With Jack gone I’m in charge’a Manhattan, but I can’t do it on my own. I _can’t_. I need’ja help. You’re our plan guy, ain’cha, Davey? Help us make a new plan.”

Davey takes one more shaky breath, then nods.

Race presses his forehead to Davey’s for a moment before stepping away. “I sent Les home with Albo, and I’ve got Spot bringin’ the boys back to order. They should be ready for you.”

“Thank you, Race,” Davey says quietly. “I know you’re afraid to do this on your own, but you’re a good leader. I can tell.”

“So’re you,” says Race. “So let’s go lead, shall we?”

They end the night with a firm vote of yes to continuing the strike, though without a strong plan as to what to do. Spot Conlon agrees to spend the night in Manhattan, the idea being that he and Davey and Race can put their heads together to come up with a new direction.

The three of them stay up well into the night, with no plan in sight even as Davey starts to nod off on Race’s shoulder. Race can’t blame him; today has been exhausting top to bottom, and for no one more so than the two of them.

“He alright?” Spot asks quietly, nodding toward Davey.

“Just ex-fucking-sausted,” says Race.

“Ain’t we all?” says Spot. “We can call it a night.”

Race nods. “I think we oughtta. I don’t wanna wake him, but I don’t wanna go tryin’a make plans without him.”

So Spot crawls into a nearby lower bunk, leaving Race to deal with Davey. He nudges the older boy gently. “Davey. _Daaaaveeeey._ Daves, c’mon.”

“Mmm?” Davey responds.

“Get in a bed, Davey, s’more comfortable than the floor,” Race says. “Mine’s the lower one just there, if you want. I’ll bunk with Albo, I don’t – I don’t wanna be alone.”

Davey nods sleepily and lets Race push him onto a bunk.

Race wants to go to sleep, he know he ought to, but he just – he can’t. He’s wired, his mind is racing.

He never would’ve pictured Jack a sellout. Jack’s been his best friend and his brother for years, he’d never – he wouldn’t –

But he fucking _did_ , and he left Davey alone and he left Race alone and he left all of the rest of the other boys who looked up to him alone. He sold out and that means he gave up on Crutchie, too, and Race doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forgive that.

He climbs out the window onto the fire escape, hoping the cooler evening air will help him clear his head.

Instead, he almost gets tripped over by the man himself – the one, the only, the traitorous Jack fucking Kelly.

He’s got a hell of a shiner comin’ up where Spot hit him, and Race is happy to complete the set by landing a punch to his other eye.

“How fucking _dare_ you show back up here?” says Race. He knows his voice sounds high and shaky, he doesn’t care. “How could you!”

“Race!” says Jack, stepping back with his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Race, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know-“

“You fucking sold us out, coming back with your fucking _sorrys_ ,” Race spits. “Get the fuck away from me and get the fuck away from here. Go book your goddamn train ticket to Santa fucking Fe, why don’t you?”

“Race, it’s not like that –“

“Then what the _fuck_ is it like?”

“I went to talk to Joe, just like I said I was gonna,” Jack says, his voice steady. “Only Snyder was there, told him all about my ‘criminal history.’ An’e offered me a deal, see – he said if I didn’t cooperate, they’d hurt Crutchie. He said they’d take Davey and Les from their family, he said they’d hurt the rest’a you boys –“

“So sellin’ out was some kinda noble sacrifice, huh?” says Race. “Showin’ up to the rally and shoving a knife in Davey’s back was just to protect him?”

“Yes,” Jack says simply.

“What about me, huh? You’ve abandoned me twice in as many days, you motherfucker, you _know_ I’m not goddamn ready to take over,” says Race. “Not without Crutchie here – not without help –“

“You had Davey,” says Jack.

“Davey ain’t fuckin’ ready either!” Race snaps.

“The two’a you’ve been doin’ real good without me,” Jack says softly. “You have. I’m so sorry, Racer, I am, but I’m so fuckin’ proud of you –“

“I don’t care!” says Race, with tears in his eyes. “I don’t _care_ if you’re proud’a me, you motherfucking backstabber –“

“Race,” Jack says softly. “Racer, c’mon. C’mere.”

He opens his arms.

And the thing is – the really fucked up, shitty thing is – Race can’t resist that comfort. Jack’s been one of the only steady things in Race’s life for a long, long time, and even when Jack’s the one to screw him over, he’s the one Race wants to hold onto until it all feels manageable again.

He falls into Jack’s arms and hugs him until he’s cried himself out, wrapped up in a soothing embrace from his best friend. His big brother.

(They’re not even a full year apart in age, since Jack’s just barely seventeen himself, but Jack’s always had this ridiculously strong big brother instinct and Race isn’t above letting him look after him, after not having anybody at all for so long.)

His backstabbing, traitorous –

“Why’d you come back?” Race asks through sniffles.

“Kathy Plumber’s got a plan to save the strike,” says Jack. “I know I don’t have any right to ask it of you, but I need your help. Yours and the boys’ and – fuck, I’ve got to go talk to Davey.”

Race takes a sharp step away from Jack. “Oh, no. Dave’s a wreck because of you, you’re not going near him. I’ll talk to him, okay? Just fill me in, what’s the plan?”

And Jack tells him.

They spend the night printing a one-page paper – a call to action, quoting the impassioned speech Jack gave on the second day of the strike. It’s a call for _all_ the working kids of New York to stand together, not just the newsies.

And it _works_.

Not at first – at first, it’s still just the newsies standing alone in the square first thing in the morning. But other kids – thousands of them, from every job under the sun – show up and swarm the square and the surrounding streets.

Jack, Davey, and Spot go up to talk to Pulitzer.

Spot and Davey come down first, without Jack.

Davey wedges himself into the crowd next to Race, silently threading their fingers together between them and squeezing Race’s hand. He looks hopeful, but not quite certain.

Only then a few things happen in pretty quick succession.

One: Jack appears on the balcony above them, between Pulitzer and Governor Roosevelt, shouting, “We won!”

Two: a police wagon arrives. Crutchie, among others, climbs out and is caught immediately in a spinning hug by Albert. Snyder the goddamn Spider is taken into custody.

Three: Jack shows up ground level, making halfhearted statements about leaving.

“Don’t you ever get tired of singing the same old tune?” Davey snaps, pulling away from Race to shake Jack by the shoulders. “What’s Santa Fe got that New York ain’t, really? Tarantulas? Sandstorms? Not your goddamn family, that’s for sure. Because your family is _here_.”

Crutchie steps away from Albert to join Davey by Jack’s side. “New York ain’t so bad, really, is it? S’long as we’re all here together?”

“I –“ Jack starts.

Katherine joins their little group. “Everything you’ve worked for is here, Jack. Stay?”

“Did I not hear something about the strike being settled?” Pulitzer says, looking annoyed.

“Papes for the newsies!” Weasel calls. “Line up, line up!”

Davey and Crutchie both walk away from Jack, joining Race and Albert in line. Just as Davey is paying for his papers, Les shouts, “Hey! Guys! Look!”

And they all turn just in time to see Jack pull Katherine in for a dramatic kiss. There’s an uproar of cheers and laughter, but Davey’s voice cuts through clearly.

“Jack!” he calls, one hand on his hip. “Are you in, or are you out?”

Jack turns toward him, grinning. “Oh, I’m in.”

He slams his coins down in front of Weasel, takes his papers, and turns back to the group at large.

“Newsies! Hit the streets!”

Race can’t help but laugh as he walks out into the world, one arm slung over Davey’s shoulders. The more things change, the more they stay the same.


End file.
